


i've seen the paths that your eyes wander down

by darienrawr



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 15:10:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darienrawr/pseuds/darienrawr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it's not a big place, it's not ever very full outside of the standard morning rush, but it's where liam goes to write. his girlfriend danielle says it's where he goes to stalk but he doesn't pay her any mind, not when he could be cataloging the weird ways the shop brings people together. and by people, he means the four boys that keep pulling him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i've seen the paths that your eyes wander down

**Author's Note:**

> a short ficlet sort of thing for sweaterdirection. to be fair, I wrote this before liam and danielle broke up and rereading it sort of broke my heart.

The first time that Liam walks into the shop, it had been raining heavily and there was nothing that he really wanted more than a hot cup of tea, and an escape from the torrential downpour outside. Instead what he got was a face full of flour and even though it got stuck in clumps in his wet hair, even though it took Danielle about an hour to get it all out because he let it dry, sticking around, accepting a free cup of tea and a scone as an apology from the bright eyed cherub looking boy who exclaimed "I swear, I was aiming for Louis! Are you ok?", he comes back. It's too the astonishment of both Danielle and the demon/cherub combo that greets him with a smile and a little "what can I get you mate?", but he keeps coming back and he isn't really sure why. 

Niether is Harry, the curly haired boy behind the counter. He rarely comes out to the front, to be honest, so he's surprised he's been there both times that Liam comes in, but he is just glad that Louis didn't scare him away. Later Louis will protest, "You're the one that threw flour in his face, my lord Styles!" But if Louis want's to call him my lord, who is Harry to stop him? They don't talk about the poor bloke much after the second time that he comes in. University students are always coming in, getting their caffeine fix, taking advantage of the free wifi, and Harry and Louis are busy, trying to find time to bake and make out and annoy Zayn.

It's not that Harry doesn't know that he loves Louis. He's known from the very first day, and he is reminded every time that he gets a particularly mischievous smile thrown his way. Because Louis is really one of the only things from home that he has held onto. He's been baking since he was young, since he could reach the counter really, but even the money that he made as a baker in Holmes Chapel is gone, all poured into this little shop with the tiny apartment above it, where he and Louis play fight and kiss and cuddle, convince Zayn to quit smoking once a week. It's to the point that he can count quickly on his finger tips the things he's held onto from their sleepy town, but Louis is the one that he counts first. Louis, a picture of Gemma and his mum, the blanket his gran quilted for him, his favourite jumper, and the only tea mug that he uses, the one with Mickey on it, that he got from Disney Paris when his family went when he was 8. No, Harry knows that he loves Louis. Louis fills him with a sleepy sort of warmth, Louis who challenges him to dumb dares, who flirts with anyone that walks through their doors. Harry loves Louis, a terrifying amount, because Louis is home. 

It's like Louis can't tell, or doesn't care however. That's a bit mean, but it's the truth. Louis doesn't care that he is Harry's new home, doesn't care about much really. He cares about Harry, he cares about Zayn, and all of his tiny addictions (caffeine, nicotine, shit music) but he doesn't care to the extent that other people do. He's a bit scared of the depth other people have, wishes the world could be cheeky jokes and silly pranks and warm fresh bread all the time, but he's wistful not dumb. And he's not ungrateful, he knows that Harry see's all the vapid parts of him, and he still pushes his curly head against Louis hand in a nonverbal attempt to get him to stroke his hair. He still kisses Louis like his lips are made of spun sugar, still smiles with wide dimples when Louis bites his shoulder while he's icing a cake, and so Louis knows that someone is capable of looking past his dark bits, and that is astounding enough to make Louis whisper little i love you's into Harry's curly mop when he thinks the younger boy is asleep. it is astounding enough to make Louis admit, at least to himself that Harry is his hope.

It's not that Zayn minds, the way that Harry and Louis fit together so effortlessly. He doesn't really, rarely get's jealous of the two boys. His best mates are in love and that's generally a good thing. When they can sit still enough, he even draws them, quick sketches while they're snuggled up on the couch in their little flat, just after the 2nd episode of friends, just before Louis pokes Harry in the side, sending him into a fit of giggles, making him look even more like a kitten than usual. He draws them when they are in the kitchen and he is out front, even though he should be paying attention to the customers, He likes the long lines of Harry's torso, the swell of Louis' ass, the way their hair blends together when they fall asleep next to each other on the couch. No, Zayn likes harryandlouis, it's just that standing next to them for too long makes him feel strangely empty, makes him feel the hole he imagines in his side sort of grow, and it's unsettling. sometimes, he thinks that it would be easier to find a job somewhere else, but he likes being able to roll out of bed and smoke his way down the stairs. He likes free coffee, likes as many smoke breaks as he wants, likes the blonde bloke that comes in with eyes too blue and a smile too wide, and so he stays.

It's not like Niall even likes coffee. He's got enough energy, so much that he can't drink it or fuck it or sleep it away, so he isn't sure why his feet keep leading him back to the bakery on the corner, but he suspects it's the way the barista can turn him, a usually suave (or at the least outstandingly confident) bloke, to a quiet mess. It probably has to do with his long lashes, or high cheekbones or the way that he sees tattoo's peeking out from the dark boys collar, but he buys a huge cafe au lait every other day, and works quietly in the corner. He's really not able to do much but mix beats with his head phones in, because he can't bring his whole studio can he? (guitar keyboard, even drums), but it's enough and he finds himself particularly inspired by the quiet boy behind the counter. He learns his name, Zayn, though it's owner says it far more like Zen.

It's not that he means too, he was going to plug his headphones in, but he opens his laptop up and one of his songs is playing loudly. He gets them in with an embarrassed little flush, but it is too late, Zayn is hopping the counter and striding over to him with the same sort of confident sleepy ease that he does most things and then they are sharing headphones. Zayn likes the song, quite a bit, asks for a copy with a small smile and Niall is beyond flattered, but he shakes his head. "It's not done yet, though, mate?" He says and Zayn just smirks, in this way that astounds Niall. "Tell me when you're done then. I'll show you mine, when you show me yours." Zayn returns to the counter, and picks his charcoal back up, and that's when Niall realizes that Zayn has been sketching him, that those fingers covered in soot have been mapping out his face on thin sheets of paper, and the flush that somes to his cheek is deep and immediate. It's not his fault that he immediately thinks of Zayn's dirty fingers wrapped up in his, cupping his face, crushing his hips, holding a pen and marking him up, like he is some how all the canvas that Zayn will ever need.

The song he comes up with is louder than most of his usual stuff, strange because Zayn is quiet with a sort of intensity that Niall can only match in his love for food and music, but how could it sound any different because Niall wrote it to cover up the thumping of his heart. Niall wrote it to try and get used to the way that his blood pounds in his ears every time Zayn smirks over at him from behind impossibly long lashes. "I like it." Zayn declares quietly, before slipping over a stack of drawings that take Niall's breath away. Most of them are little, but he can see that they are all of him, of his hands, his cheeks, the curve of his lips, his neck, the little bones in his wrist. The last however, is of him staring down, deep in concentration, a side of himself he's never really seen.   
"I like it when you laugh," Zayn admits cooly from behind his coffee mug. his 8th cup, Niall counts mentally, "but it's hard to catch a laugh. near impossible to get yours just right anyway." Because Niall laughs like a child, he throws his heart into it, and Zayn is good, but he's not that good, not yet. "You'll just have to keep trying then, won't you?" Niall says with a quick grin and Zayn kisses him for it. Zayn kisses him, and he feels the hole in his side, the one that had been so gaping wide before Niall, the one that had been slowly edging closed since he's met this boy with smiles brighter than the sun, fill up completely.

Liam likes watching them, warms his heart a bit. London isn't the town that he thought that it would be. It's bigger and colder than he expected but when he is in the tiny corner shop watching these boys fall in love, all of his disappointments are easy to forget. Or at least, thats the way he explains it in the quiet morning hours to Danielle, who is hopping into her pants, listening to his voice as he reads out words about halves becoming whole. Most of his writing is long and wordy, but her favourites are always his poems. Those coax from her lips, big smiles and soft kisses, and she traces his features before she leaves for work fondly, as if she is trying to memorize him. Her favourite, the one about suns and stars, moons and swiftly moving constellations, is the one that he whispers in her hair, it's the one that she repeats to herself, as if keeping the words on her tongue could keep them all happy and whole.


End file.
